


Where We Fit

by lilbluednacer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Casual Sex, F/M, Lydia's massive intimacy issues, minor original male characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 10:36:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13902252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilbluednacer/pseuds/lilbluednacer
Summary: Lydia doesn't do love, not anymore.And then she meets Stiles.





	Where We Fit

**Author's Note:**

> _Call me Mary. Call me Sophie._  
>  _Call me what you like._  
>  _I'll answer to any man who_  
>  _looks at me right._  
>  \- Safiya Sinclair, how to be an interesting woman: a polite guide for the poetess

The man three bar stools down from her is staring at her.

Lydia carefully flips her hair over her shoulder to reveal her neck and her left shoulder, exposed by her black strapless bodycon dress. She had an exam this morning, it's the first night that she's been out in over three weeks. It's not something she does often, even if she wanted to, the majority of her time is consumed by her various school-related responsibilities.

But sometimes she just needs it in a way that she can't fully articulate. She craves a man’s hands on her body, warm weight pinning her down, to be the center of someone's universe for a few hours.

It's almost midnight and she's on her second Kettle One and Tonic, and the guy who's watching her is handsome in a slick sort of way - he has the same perfectly styled undercut every white guy in the city has right now, a lean body in a sharp gunmetal grey suit, a jawline that vaguely reminds her of Jackson.

She lifts her shoulder, tilts her head a little, and that's all it takes. He scoots down to her, a broad smile on his face. She smiles back a little, mostly to herself, at how easy they all are, how little it takes to make a man interested in her.

“Hey,” he says. “I'm Aaron.”

She leans her right elbow on the bar. “Ariel.”

“Can I buy you a drink, Ariel?”

She picks up her glass and drains the rest of her cocktail. “I don't need another drink.” She licks her lips, watching the way his eyes follow the small movement, and brushes the sharp pointed toe of one of her stilettos against his calf. “I could use some company though.”

Easy as that.

*

She has rules, of course. 

Rule Number One: always wear a condom. 

Rule Number Two: never stay the night.

Rule Number Three: never give your real name.

Rule Number Four: keep it casual.

Rule Number Five: follow the rules. No exceptions.

*

“You should at least _meet_ him,” Allison says.

Lydia glances over at her phone screen where she's face-timing with Allison on her couch while painting her toenails. “I told you, I don't have time to date anyone right now.”

“You don't have to _date_ him. I just think it’d be nice if you, you know, had someone to hang out with, like to get coffee or whatever.”

Lydia carefully applies a layer of OPI Me, Myselfie, and I to her pinkie toe. “Is this your way of telling me you think I'm antisocial?”

Allison pouts into the camera. “I'm just worried about you.”

“You're just mad I moved all the way across the county.”

“Only a _little_. But seriously, Scott says he's really nice” -

“Allison, if you don't stop trying to hook me up with Scott’s random friend who goes to BU I swear I'm going to hang up on you,” Lydia threatens.

“Okay fine, but before you do, he's really cute, I promise! I have photographic evidence!”

Lydia sighs. “Send it over.”

Her phone buzzes with a text and she caps the bottle of nail polish to open it. Allison's sent her a picture of Scott and another boy, wearing matching maroon sweatshirts, their arms thrown around each other. Lydia zooms in a little on his face: brown eyes, an upturned nose, a few moles.

“Hmm. Cute,” she concedes.

“See?” Allison gives her a pleading smile. “So is it okay if Scott gives him your number?”

“Absolutely not,” Lydia replies, and hangs up.

*

She swore to herself that she wouldn't go out again, not until she's finished her paper, but she can't focus, Lydia gets up from her desk and paces around the living room of her small apartment, the silence somehow physically painful. She needs something, a distraction, a way out of her head. So she saves her paper, puts on a royal blue slip dress and heels, takes an Uber to a bar, and picks up a guy.

She chooses the first one who looks at her right, someone with sharp cheekbones and tan skin, and all she has to do is press her lips into an inviting smile and he comes right to her, buys them both tequila shots and licks the salt off the back of her hand like he's making love to it.

Lydia doesn't know the guy's name but she knows that he's wearing Armani cologne and she knows that she likes the way his hands feel against the bare skin of her back when he leads her to a dark corner of the bar to press her up against the wall to kiss her, and that's enough for her right now. 

She goes home alone and falls asleep naked on top of the covers with all her makeup on, and in the morning she makes a pot of coffee, finishes her paper, and books herself a facial.

*

She thinks about it sometimes in the middle of the night when she can't sleep, in the long cold Boston winter that feels endless and unbearable - the idea of waking up to a lover’s hands on her skin, touching her between her legs, warming her up from the inside out, falling asleep with someone's chest pressed against her back, but then she remembers how cold Jackson's skin was that night, and it's enough to make her not want it again.

Not like that, anyway. She doesn't do love, not anymore.

No one stays warm forever.

*

“I'm worried about you.” Allison's voice crackles through the phone line.

Lydia sighs and reaches up to readjust her earbuds as she walks. “I'm fine.”

“Uh huh. When was the last time you talked to someone besides one of your professors or your lab partner?”

“I'm talking to you right now.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don't want to talk about this.”

“Lydia, it's been almost four years” -

“Don't,” she warns. “I mean it.”

“You need to make some friends,” Allison insists. “This isn't healthy.”

Lydia lets herself inside the lecture hall and starts descending the stairs so she can get a front row seat. “I have to go, class is starting.”

She can hear Allison sigh into the phone. “Okay. Call me later?”

“Okay.” Lydia hangs up and pulls her earbuds out, ignoring the way her hands shake when she unbuttons her coat.

*

She goes to a birthday party for one of her fellow TA’s across the river on Saturday night. It's in a third floor apartment crammed with people Lydia mostly doesn't know. She heads straight for the bar and pours herself a vodka tonic, slams it back and pours one more, takes her drink and hops up on the window seat in the far corner of the living room.

She used to like parties, back in high school. She liked dressing up for them, liked arriving fashionably late in Jackson’s Porsche, liked the way everyone always stared at them. And she liked the security of his hand on her arm, the way he'd warn other guys to back off with just a look. She used to think it was sexy, how possessive he was, how it felt to be half of a high school power couple, how every girl wanted to be her and every guy wanted to be with her.

Across the room a guy in a blue and green plaid flannel is watching her in a way that's more investigative than flirtatious, his eyes making little reconnaissance glances at her hair, her eyes, her lips. When Lydia catches his eye she raises an eyebrow and he flushes and turns back to the little knot of guys he's standing with. 

Hmm, Lydia thinks. Too bad. He's cute enough, at least from what she can see of him from across the room, but she likes her one night stands cocky, useful and ultimately forgettable. She stays another hour before she's had enough, walks down the narrow hallway and takes a selfie in the mirror to send to Allison as proof that she's socializing. She fixes her hair in the mirror and walks out, a line has formed in the hallway so that she has to squeeze past everyone waiting and almost makes it out when she bumps shoulders with someone and her heel catches on something as she starts to fall.

Lydia reaches out to regain her balance and catches a handful of flannel. When she looks up she's standing chest to chest with the guy who was looking at her earlier. Up close she can see he's actually very cute, with amber eyes and an upturned nose that looks vaguely familiar.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” he says.

She stares up at his face - there's something so _familiar_ about him. She's seen it before, his eyes, that nose. She realizes that her fingers are still curled around the fabric of his shirt and his hands are braced against her waist, she can feel the heat of his hands sinking through the silk fabric of her cream and burgundy rose printed cocktail dress.

He squints at her. “Have we met before?”

Lydia shakes her head slowly. “I don't think so.”

“Are you sure?”

Lydia studies his face again and then it clicks, she twists down to her little leather crossbody bag and pulls out her phone, scrolls through her text thread until she finds the picture Allison sent her. She taps it and holds the screen up to him. “Is this you?”

Stiles’ mouth drops open a little. “You know Scott?”

“Allison.”

“Oh!” His eyes suddenly flash with recognition. “You're Lydia!”

Her eyes widen. “You know my name?”

“I'm Facebook friends with Allison,” he explains. “You went to high school with her in San Francisco, right?”

“Mhmm.” She stares shamelessly at him, trying to reconcile the picture of him with this bright-eyed person standing in front of her, tall and broad shouldered and real.

He raises an eyebrow at her. “You don't actually know who I am, do you?”

“Of course I do,” she retorts. “You're Scott's friend who goes to BU.”

“Best friend actually, we're really more like brothers,” he says. “I'm Stiles.”

Lydia's just drunk enough to giggle. “Excuse me?”

“Nickname,” he explains. “Trust me, it's much better than my given name.”

Lydia shakes her hair out of her face. “Well then I suppose it's nice to meet you, Stiles.”

He removes his hands from her waist. “It's nice to meet you too, Lydia.”

Her head clears a little, she steps back and ignores the little twang in her chest when she loses all physical contact with him. “I was actually just about to leave.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Hey, are you hungry?”

Lydia stares at him. She can't remember the last time she ate with another person other than Allison, and that was over winter break. She thinks back to earlier, her sad leftover chicken fried rice eaten straight from the carton standing up while watching MSNBC. “What?”

“There's a pizza place down the block, I was gonna hit it up before heading home. You wanna come?” He gives her an enticing grin. “Come on, it'll be fun, we can talk shit about Scott and Allison.”

Lydia gives him a scandalized look. “I would never talk shit about Allison.”

“Oh, come on! You're her best friend, right?”

“Right,” Lydia says hesitantly. 

“And I'm Scott's, so you and I are in a unique position to commiserate over how disgusting they are together.”

“In a sweet way,” she adds.

Stiles offers her his elbow. “Was that a yes?”

Maybe Allison's right, maybe Lydia does need to make friends, because the idea of walking away, going home alone right now suddenly seems unspeakably depressing.

“Fine.” Lydia flips her hair and weaves her arm through his. “But you're buying.”

Stiles walks her down the block to a little pizzeria on the corner, buys her a slice of New York-style cheese the size of her forearm and slides across from her in a red leather booth, a stack of pizza slices on his own cardboard plate. He talks a _lot_ , within the first ten minutes she's learned that Stiles grew up in Beacon Hills with Scott, he's an only child, he's a criminal justice major with a sociology minor, and he lives not far from here with his roommate, someone named Danny, who’s also from Beacon Hills.

“We all played lacrosse together in high school,” Stiles says, and Lydia chokes on her water and starts to cough.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Stiles leans over the table to offer her a stack of napkins.

“Sorry.” Lydia wipes her streaming eyes with a napkin. “Swallowed wrong.”

Jackson had a friend named Danny, they trained at a lacrosse camp together the summer before -

“You go to MIT, right?” Stiles asks. 

Lydia runs her fingers through her hair. “How much has Scott told you about me, exactly?”

He laughs. “Allison, actually.”

“You talk to Allison?”

“Sure, we're practically bros now.” Stiles grins, folding his pizza slice in half. “She's dating my best friend, I had to vet her.”

“Should I be worried?”

He laughs. “You're a genius who goes to MIT and is probably going to win a Nobel Prize one day, the way Allison tells it. You've got nothing to worry about, trust me.”

“Fields Medal.”

“Sorry?”

“Nobel doesn't have a prize for mathematics, the Fields Medal’s the one I'll be winning.”

Stiles just smiles and shoves the folded pizza slice into his mouth.

Lydia doesn't usually let guys she's only known for an hour drive her home, especially when the car in question is a rickety old Jeep that looks like it doesn't have a single original part left, but Stiles’ arm is warm around her shoulders and he only had one beer three hours ago, apparently.

“Safety first,” he explains cheerfully as they go outside. And he's Scott's best friend, he's not a random guy, and it's like Lydia can hear Allison in her head, telling her to smile when she accepts the ride Stiles offers.

He drops her off in front of her building and when he asks if she wants to trade numbers she finds herself handing over her phone so he can text his own from it. When they say goodbye he hugs her from across the console, nothing serious, just an arm that slings around her waist and squeezes for a second before he lets her go. It makes her feel a little stunned, the casual affection, the distinctive _lack_ of overt flirtation, which only makes everything he does seem _more_ intimate, like he already considers her a friend.

She falls asleep that night under two blankets, shivering, one hand spread over her stomach, trying to recreate the feeling of his hands against her waist.

*

She doesn't really expect to hear from Stiles but he calls her when she's leaving the library on Tuesday. Lydia sits down on the steps to answer, pulling her coat tightly around herself.

“Hello?”

“Lydia, hey!”

“Hi, Stiles.”

“Are you doing anything right now? I was gonna get some Chinese, I just got out of an exam and I'm starving. Want to come?”

Lydia's stomach growls as she realizes that she hasn't eaten since lunch, which was about seven hours ago. “I'm at the library at school.”

“I can pick you up,” he offers. 

“Alright,” she agrees, and drops him a pin. 

Stiles pulls up half an hour later, beeping the horn when he parks at the curb. Lydia deposits her tote bag in the backseat before opening the passenger door and climbing into the Jeep. He's wearing a heavy grey sweatshirt over a red and navy plaid shirt, long fingers resting against the wheeling. The heat is blasting from the vents, Lydia unbuttons her black wool trench coat in relief and buckles her seatbelt. 

“Hey,” he says brightly, glancing over his shoulder at the street before pulling away from the curb. “How are you?”

“Hungry,” she admits. “Thanks for picking me up.”

“My pleasure.” Stiles brakes for a stop sign. “You good with Chinese?”

“I've been studying for six hours straight, I'm pretty sure I'd be good with anything remotely edible right now.”

“Damn.” Stiles glances sympathetically at her. “What're you majoring in? Math?”

“Applied math and molecular biology.”

“Jesus Christ.” Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up. “Just how smart are you exactly?”

“Smart enough,” she says, only a little smug.

He takes her to a little Chinese restaurant fifteen minutes away and parallel parks on the street. They sit at a two top in the corner of the room by the windows, Lydia orders a green tea and wraps her hands around the mug as she glances over the menu along with Stiles. When their waitress comes, a pretty girl in a pink and gold embroidered dress who looks about twelve, they order egg drop soup, spring rolls, pineapple chicken fried rice, and beef lo mein. 

“So,” Lydia asks, leaning back in her chair. “Why criminology?”

“My dad’s the sheriff so I was kind of obsessed with solving mysterious when I was a kid,” he explains. “Guess it stuck. Why mathematics?”

“Same as you, I suppose.”

He crinkles his forehead. “How do you mean?”

She takes a sip of tea and swallows. “Math is the language of the universe. Don't you think that's the biggest mystery of all?”

When Stiles smiles it's like the sun coming out, warm and comforting and brilliant.

*

For a few weeks the only person Lydia talks to, outside of school, is Stiles. They start getting breakfast together on Thursday mornings when they realize they both don't have class until ten, they go to her favorite coffee shop together and study over blueberry scones dunked in coffee. He drives them to dinner a few times a week, always to a different place - they eat sushi rolls at Uni, creamy fettuccine alfredo from La Famiglia Giorgio’s, warm pita bread stuffed with falafel and dipped in hummus at Cafe Med.

It's enough, for awhile.

And then the longing starts to creep in, like it always does, and Lydia doesn't really have time for this - she has papers to grade, an exam she needs to study for, but she can't focus when she feels like this, she works better with a clear head. So she changes into a sleek white dress and blows out her hair, painstakingly applies red lipstick, and goes to The Druid. She sits on a stool and sips a lemon drop while checking out her prospects - a few finance guys in shiny suits, a group of frat brothers in matching polo shirts, no one particularly interesting.

She's on her second drink when she spots him - he's on the opposite end of the bar, drinking a beer. A guy with skin the color of coffee with cream stirred in, a shaved head, fingers stained with what looks like paint. He glances up at her and holds her gaze before taking a sip of his beer, and licks his lips suggestively. 

Lydia smirks and glances at the doorway, mouths, _five minutes_ , and drains her glass, leaves a few bills next to it on the bar. She goes to the bathroom and when she comes back he's waiting for her in the hallway, jacket on, one hand outstretched.

“Dante,” he says, all business, shaking her hand before threading their fingers together. 

She can feel the second drink going to her head, unable to focus on much more than the feeling of his palm against hers. She smiles and pulls him to the exit and she loves this part, the nervous anticipation, the thrill. He orders an Uber and kisses her on the sidewalk while they wait. He lives close by, the ride doesn't even take ten minutes but it's cold and she isn't wearing a coat so she's grateful.

He takes her up to his apartment and lets her in, shuts the door. Lydia crowds him in, kisses the edge of his jaw and moves down his body as she falls to her knees, watching the way his hands shake as she reaches the waistband of his jeans, his fingers coated in flecks of cerulean, indigo, violet.

“What's your name?” he pants above her, leaning back against his apartment door.

“Ariel.” Lydia pulls a hair band off her wrist and ties her curls back in a low ponytail.

He unzips his jeans and shoves them down with one hand, cups the back of her head with the other. “You're so pretty,” he says, sounding dazed.

“Thank you,” she says politely, and wraps her lips around him.

She swallows when it's over and waves off his offer to stay the night or at least long enough to engage in some reciprocation. “I have a test in the morning,” she says cooly, kisses his cheek and leaves before he can ask her to stay again. 

She walks a block to a twenty-four hour Starbucks, gets a cup of decaf and sits at the counter in front of the windows. She stares blankly out at the street, numb in a way that's better than the aching loneliness of earlier, and drinks until the only bitterness she can taste is from the coffee, and gets an Uber home.

*

“What color is your hair?” Stiles asks one night when they're studying over hot chocolate at a coffee shop near her apartment, sitting on an overstuffed velvet couch under the window.

It's been pouring all day, the temperature just warm enough for rain that will probably turn to slush later; they've been camped out here since Stiles’ last class was over at four. It's dark out, rain lashing at the windows, Lydia can see her reflection in the glass. She rolls her shoulders back, glancing up from her notebook. “Strawberry blond, why?”

He's chewing on the end of his pen cap. “Just wondering.” He gives her a little bashful smile. “It's pretty.”

Lydia freezes suddenly, a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. “Thank you.”

“Hey.” Stiles stretches out his legs. “How do you feel about calling it quits and getting some food?”

She flips to a fresh page in her notebook. “Are you _always_ hungry?”

“It's almost nine o'clock!” he protest. “You can't expect me to do my best studying on an empty stomach, that's just ridiculous, I need _fuel_ , Lydia.”

“Okay, fine,” she concedes, because she didn't realize how late it was getting and now that he's mentioned it she's getting hungry too.

They gather up their things and put their coats on, huddle inside the door while Stiles gets his keys out. “Ready?”

Lydia nods and they make a break for it, dashing down the sidewalk to where Stiles is parked halfway down the block. Lydia jumps up into the passenger seat and waits for Stiles, who blows on his hands when he gets into the car and shakes water out of his hair before putting the key in the ignition. The engine makes a terrible choking noise and Stiles groans, tries one more time before pocketing his keys.

“Hang on,” he tells her, and gets out, slamming the door behind him before rain can get into the interior.

Lydia watches through the windshield as Stiles pops the hood and messes around with the car for a minute before walking around to her side of the Jeep. Lydia cracks the window open for him. “Well?”

“I think the engine is flooded,” he says. 

Lydia flips up the hood of her coat to cover her hair. “You should just come over, I'm right around the corner anyway.”

“Really?” He's never been inside her apartment before.

“Unless you want to wait here for a tow truck.”

“Nah, I don't need that. I've just gotta let the weather clear up, it should be fine by the morning,” he says. 

“Alright, let's go then.”

Stiles grabs his backpack from the backseat and hands Lydia her tote bag before digging out an umbrella from under the passenger seat and popping it open on the sidewalk. Lydia hops down from the Jeep and huddles closely next to him to get under the umbrella. They walk hip to hip to her apartment, Lydia lets them into the lobby of her building and leads Stiles into the elevator, hitting the button for her floor with cold fingers.

They're still dripping water when they get out of the elevator, they walk down the hallway to her apartment and Lydia stops in front of the door to dig for her keys.

“Roommate?” Stiles asks, folding up the umbrella.

Lydia finds her key ring and unlocks the door. “Just me.”

Her apartment is small but nice - an open concept living room and kitchen, her bedroom and the bathroom down the hall. Her dad pays the rent, the only real interest he'd shown in contributing when she'd moved here for school, and it's not like Lydia can exactly complain when some of her classmates are taking out absurd loans and living in shoebox apartments with five roommates.

“Nice,” Stiles comments, kicking off his soaked Converses and walking through the kitchen to drop his backpack on the floor by the couch.

Lydia locks the front door and hangs up her coat in the hall closet, glancing back at him where he's eyeing the flatscreen on the far wall. It's strange, seeing him here, in her space, she's never had a guy here before. “You want takeout?”

“That would be great.” Stiles turns around and gives her a smile that makes Lydia ache in a way she doesn't like.

“You can watch tv if you want,” she offers, pulling up a menu from the Thai place six blocks over on her phone. 

Stiles finds a marathon of I Love Lucy on Nick at Nite, Lydia settles next to him on her cream suede couch and hands her phone over to Stiles. They've eaten enough together that he knows what she likes, he holds up the screen to her to get her approval first - tom ka kai soup, pad see ew, chicken fried rice. Lydia nods in approval and Stiles places the order online, passes her phone back to her and settles back against the couch.

The strangest part about it is how it's not strange. Stiles sinks into the couch as he laughs along with the tv, his left arm casually thrown around Lydia's shoulders as they wait for the food, like they do this all the time, like he's always been here. She wasn't aware of how much empty space she lives in until now, with Stiles here to fill it in with his warmth and his laugh and his arm slotted against her like it was made for that, to fit perfectly around her body.

When the food comes they eat on the floor with their backs up against the couch. When she's done with her soup Lydia gets up and deposits her bowl in the sink, finds a half-empty bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge and brings it over, sets it on the coffee table next to the food. They takes turns drinking right out of the bottle as they plow through the fried rice and the noodles. 

The rain doesn't let up, when they finish the food they stay on the floor, passing the wine back and forth, and at some point Lydia sighs and leans over to poke his shoulder. “You should just stay here tonight and deal with the car in the morning.”

“Are you sure?”

Lydia shrugs. It's still a little strange, having him in her apartment like this, especially the idea of him being here all night, but it's nice too, comforting in a way she hadn't expected. “You can park until ten am, you won't get a ticket or anything.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You checked the parking sign?”

She shrugs. “I thought the whole point was to avoid getting towed.”

Stiles drops his chin against his knees. “That was really smart.”

She smiles brazenly, ignoring the irritating way her stomach swoops. “I have my moments.”

“So,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “What kind of sleepover are we having here?”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “The couch pulls out.”

He wipes his fingers off on a napkin and takes a slug of the wine. “You're a good friend.”

She goes still at that. Lydia knows they're friends, of course they are, they've spent most of their free time together since they met last month, but she isn't sure either of them have ever actually used that word before.

“Well,” she eventually says. “You drive me everywhere, it's the least I can do.”

Stiles grins. “Maybe I just like the company.”

She manages a haughty smile. “Well I am nice to look at.”

He catches her by the wrist. “You know that's not what I'm talking about.”

She stares down at his fingers curled around her, shocked by the heat of his skin against hers. What would it feel like, to have his whole body pressed against hers, to feel that warmth everywhere?

She clears her throat. “I'll get you some sheets.”

When she comes back from her excursion to the hall linen closet Stiles has cleared all the takeout containers from the coffee table, the almost empty wine bottle dangling from his fingers.

“Thanks,” she says softly, laying the folded sheets on the arm of the couch.

He gives her a gentle smile and passes her the bottle. “You want to kill this?”

Lydia takes the bottle and tilts her head back, feeling a little exposed. She brings the wine to her mouth and swallows it back, licks her lips and does a little curtsy when he applauds. She puts the empty bottle in the recycling and comes back over to the couch, helps Stiles pull it out and get the fitted sheet over it. She grabs a thick grey chenille blanket that's thrown over a blue and cream printed armchair and hands it to him. “Are you going to be warm enough with this?”

Stiles tests the weight of the blanket in his hands and nods, tossing it behind him onto the couch. “Thanks.”

He smiles, his head tilted a little, looking at her in a way that makes her feel self-conscious.

“What?” she asks, a little sharp, side-stepping him to get him a glass of water in case he wants one later.

“Nothing.” Stiles follows her, leaning up against the kitchen island. “You're cute when you worry about me.”

“Well excuse me for wanting to be a good hostess.” Lydia finds a clean glass and plunks it down on the counter, her cheeks flushing.

“Aw c’mon, Lydia.” Stiles moves around the counter to follow her, hands shoved in his back pockets.

Lydia leans back against the counter and raises her chin at him. “Go on, say it.”

“Say what?”

“That I'm a good hostess.”

“Mm, I don't know.” Stiles gives her a playful smile. “You're not bad, but you're not Scott’s mom either, if you ever come visit us at home you _have_ to try her lasagna.”

“Stiles!” Lydia snaps a dish towel at him and he laughs, catching it in his hands. Lydia gives up, turning around to fill the glass up from the pitcher on the counter. “Trust me, you don't want me to cook for you.”

He leans against the counter. “No?”

She shakes her head and puts down the glass. “Never really learned.”

He shrugs. “You’d figure it out, it's not that hard.”

“Yeah, because I have so much time for that.”

Stiles reaches out and Lydia freezes, a little terrified of this, how close he is, but he just brushes her wrist with his fingers. “I could teach you sometime. I mean, if you want to.”

Lydia swallows. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Cool. Um, you wouldn't happen to have a spare toothbrush anywhere, would you?”

She does, in the hall closet, still wrapped in plastic. They brush their teeth together side by side at the sink and Lydia gets hit by it again, how bizarrely normal this all feels. She's never done this with someone, she's never let a man spend the night, she's never shared little domestic moments like this. Next to her Stiles spits out a mouthful of foam and rinses from the tap, like he's totally unaware of the way that Lydia is studying him like he's something alien, a foreign creature invading her most intimate spaces like it's nothing, like he was made to live here.

They go back to the living room and Lydia hands him the remote to the tv, glancing around the room. “Do you need anything else before I go to bed?”

Stiles shakes his head. “When's your first class tomorrow?”

“Nine.”

He nods, pulling out his phone. “Cool, I’ll set an alarm, assuming everything with my car isn't fucked in the morning I'll give you a ride.”

Lydia presses her lips together and forces herself to smile because he's so sweet and earnest, without even trying, and she doesn't know what to do with it, she isn't sure she's made for this, anymore. She hasn't even done anything in particular to deserve this, his easy kindness, the way he's taken her under his wing without either of them realizing it, keeping her connected to the world, pulling her out of her little solitary life and making her feel alive again.

“Lydia.” Stiles gives her a look like maybe this isn't the first time he's said her name. “You okay?”

“Pillow!” she blurts out.

He stares dumbly at her. “What?”

“You don't have a pillow, I'll go get you one,” she says hastily.

Lydia walks to her bedroom and snatches a pillow from the side of the bed she never sleeps on, clutches it in her hands and goes back to the living room where he's waiting for her. “Here,” she says, and passes it to him.

Stiles gives her a soft smile as he puts it on the couch. “Thanks, Lydia.”

“You're welcome,” she murmurs, looking away. “Are you good, do you need anything else?”

“Nah, you're officially released from hosting duties.”

“Okay. Well, goodnight then.”

“Goodnight.” Stiles steps close to her and before she can do anything his arms come around her.

Lydia sinks into it, shocked at the heat of his chest against her cheek, and swallows back a sigh as his hand cups the back of her head. They've hugged before but it's always been casual, a fast embrace in the Jeep, a quick hug on the sidewalk after coffee. It's never been like this, his arms firm around her body, the steady beat of his heart in her ear. Stiles, solid and real against her body, holding her like she's something precious.

Something flares up inside her, some kind of desperate aching desire that makes Lydia stumble back out of his hold, lightheaded. 

“See you in the morning,” she says, giving him a quick tense smile, and retreats down the hall to her room, shuts her door and leans against it, her hands pressed against her temples in despair as she squeezes her eyes shut.

*

Lydia wakes up to her alarm in the morning, twitching when she remembers that Stiles is here, sleeping on her couch. She takes a quick shower and braids her hair, washes her face, brushes her teeth, and goes back to her room to get dressed. She puts on a navy long sleeved sweater dress and thick black tights and goes back to the bathroom to do her makeup. She checks the time on her phone, finishes applying her lipstick and goes out to the living room to check on Stiles.

The couch is already put back together, the sheet neatly folded on the center cushion. Stiles is standing by the coffee table, just getting into his jeans and Lydia stops, leaning against the wall to watch the muscles in his back bunch and flex as he hops into them and reaches for his tee shirt to tug it over his head. He turns around as he pulls his arms through and yelps when he sees her.

Lydia smirks and pushes off the wall. “Good morning.” 

“Hey.” Stiles reaches for his flannel shirt. “Hey, morning, you scared the shit out of me.”

“You look like you'll survive.” She finds her bag where she left it last night and quickly scans its contents to make sure she has everything she needs before slipping on her ankle boots and zipping them up. “Ready?”

Stiles blinks heavily at her and runs a hand through his rumpled hair, looking around wildly for his shoes. “Yeah.” 

He looks so cute like this, Lydia can't resist walking over and straightening his flannel. “You missed a button,” she murmurs, and goes to get her coat out of the closet.

They walk back to his car together, which is right where Stiles left it, the street optimistically dry, all the rain evaporated. Stiles hesitates on the sidewalk, looking hopefully down the block at the coffee shop. Lydia sighs and grabs his hand, it'll be faster to just go than to stand there debating when Lydia knows there's no way they're leaving without Stiles getting his caffeine fix first. “Come on.”

They have to wait in line for a few minutes, Lydia yawns behind her hand and leans back into Stiles. She feels a tremor of something unidentifiable when he spreads his hands out over her shoulders and he drops his chin to the top of her head. There's something undeniable about this, the physical connection between their bodies, the way they seem to fill up all the empty spaces between them without even trying.

Like it's just natural. The way things are supposed to be.

They both get a cup of dark roast and Stiles waits while Lydia stirs nonfat milk and stevia into hers, he leans against the wall and sips carefully from his cup so he doesn't burn his tongue. When they go back outside they backtrack to the Jeep and Stiles lets out a loud exhale as he unlocks it. 

“Come on,” he breathes, like he's praying. “Come on come on come on.”

He puts the key in the ignition and the engine turns over on the first try, Stiles whoops and punches his fist into the air. “That's what I'm talking about!”

Lydia catches herself smiling and looks out the window as Stiles shifts into drive and peels away from the curb. She doesn't realize that she hasn't told him which class she has until he's pulling up outside her lecture hall and Lydia suddenly realizes that it's because she didn't have to, he's driven her enough by now that he knows her class schedule. She grips her coffee cup in one hand as she unbuckles her seatbelt, feeling Stiles’ eyes on her as she moves around the small space to hitch her tote bag over her shoulder.

“Got everything?” he asks.

She nods, pressing her lips together. “Thanks for the ride.”

Stiles grins. He's always doing that, smiling like it's easy, like merely her presence is enough to inspire joy. “Anytime.”

She really needs to go, her lecture is starting soon, but there's this thing tugging in her chest, like she's being pulled into him, and Lydia leans forward just as Stiles opens his arms to hug her. She rests her head on his shoulder and shuts her eyes, takes a deep breath to center herself. It's so tempting to let herself fall into a fantasy here, that they're more than friends, that she's the only girl he looks at like this, like she's special, wanted, _his_.

Like they fit together perfectly, like they belong together.

When Lydia pulls away she only makes it a few inches because his face is right there and she gets caught in golden eyes. Stiles’ hand slides up to her cheek and Lydia holds her breath, her heart clenching in her chest, wildly thinking _just do it_ , like it's not a big deal, like it won't ruin everything.

He tips his head down so slowly, like he's giving her time to pull away, but she can't, she's frozen, every aching part of her longing to not just be touched, but be touched by someone who _matters_ , someone who cares about her, someone who knows her name and her major and how she takes her coffee. Someone who could love her one day, if she dared to let him.

Their lips brush and Lydia knows how to do this, it's just instinctive - her lips part as their mouths move together and suddenly she's warm from her fingertips to the soles of her feet, her whole body crying out _yes yes yes_ as she arches up to kiss him back, one perfect moment of bliss until she remembers where she is, _who_ she is, and she pulls away like she's been burned.

“I have to go, I'm going to be late,” she murmurs. 

“Okay, um, yeah, sure.” Stiles stares at her, his eyes a little glazed over. “I'll text you later?”

The look on his face is so hopeful and delighted that it makes Lydia's chest hurt. “Yeah, okay,” she says, and jumps out of the car, and even though she wants to she doesn't look back once.

*

Stiles texts her that afternoon, when Lydia’s grading papers before her afternoon lecture, sitting right outside the lecture hall on a bench with her back against the wall. She stares down at her phone, bottom lip held between her teeth as she reads: _Pick you up when you're done today?_

She closes her eyes briefly and thinks about that night four years ago, how quickly it happened. 

Like a light switch turning off. 

How he was just _gone._

_Can't_ , she types. _Have study group tonight, I'll text you later._

Lydia turns her phone on silent and slips it into her purse, and gets up to walk to the bathroom before she can start crying.

*

“What did you do?” Allison demands three days later, her voice shrill in Lydia's ear.

Lydia flinches like everyone else sitting in Starbucks can hear Allison yelling at her through her ear buds. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“You did something to Stiles! Now, I don't know _what_ you did because Scott refuses to tell me, apparently that would be against _bro code_ , but I know something happened and I know that _you_ had something to do with it, so spill!”

“ _I am in public right now_ ,” Lydia hisses. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

“Lydia!” 

“What?” she says in a low voice, paranoid, looking around to make sure no is paying attention to her.

“Come on,” Allison wheedles. “Just tell me what happened.”

“Nothing happened,” Lydia insists. “He slept over” -

“Oh my _god!_ ,” Allison shrieks.

“Not that _that_.” Lydia drops her head into her hands, horrified. “On the couch, Jesus Allison, who do you think I am?”

“You're the girl who blew a stranger you met at a bar a couple of weeks ago,” Allison says sweetly.

“Go fuck yourself,” Lydia retorts. “He was a painter. And he was gorgeous.”

“Mhmm.”

“Look, nothing happened, he took me to class in the morning and then we kissed goodbye, and I haven't seen him in a few days because I've been busy with school, okay?” she says in a rush. “See, nothing.”

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“Lydia.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Don't do this.”

“I'm not _doing_ anything.”

Allison sighs loudly, like she finds this conversation exasperating. “Okay. I'm just going to tell this back to you the way I heard it, and you tell me if I'm getting it wrong.”

Lydia flips to a fresh page in her notebook and begins to doodle. “Alright.”

“Okay. So you met a guy and you liked him. And you couldn't pretend to be vapid Lydia from high school because he knows me and Scott, and he'd figure out that it was all an act eventually anyway. Which means you were essentially forced to be yourself from the get-go, which means he actually likes you for _you_ , and now you like him back and you're freaking out because you haven't let yourself like a guy since Jackson, so you're dealing with it by pretending he doesn't exist.”

Lydia sits there with her mouth open in shock, Allison rarely plays the Jackson card. She keeps doodling, breathing shakily into the phone until she composes herself. “You're supposed to be on my side.”

“I _am_ on your side!” Allison exclaims. “I'm trying to _help_ you!”

“Well this isn't helping,” Lydia snaps, and hangs up.

*

By Saturday night Lydia is completely restless. She paces around her living room, phone held tightly in her hand, remembering all too well when Stiles was here with her, how calm she felt then, like everything in this room was aligned just right and now that he's gone it feels like something is missing, like the equilibrium has vanished, leaving her grasping at the walls for balance.

He only texted her a few more times ( _are you okay? are you mad at me? I'm sorry, please just talk to me_ ) before giving up. Lydia can't text him now, she forfeited the right to his friendship the moment she got out of his car and didn't look back.

More than anything, she hates that Allison is right. That Lydia sabotaged her relationship with him on purpose, because she's a coward and Stiles deserves better anyway.

Lydia goes into her room and puts on the tightest black dress she owns, curls her hair and applies cherry red lipstick, buckles her feet into a pair of strappy black stilettos, and takes an Uber to The Middle East.

There's some hipster band playing downstairs that she's never heard of but Lydia isn't here for the music. She goes straight towards the bar and gets a Long Island Iced Tea, which is a little desperate and certainly beneath her, but perfect for serving her purpose, which is to get as drunk as possible in the shortest about of time possible, pick out a guy, and do what she has to do until she doesn't feel like this anymore.

By the time she's at the bottom of her drink she's on that verge of being drunk, which is perfect, warm and floaty but plenty alert, looking around for prospects. It doesn't take her long to find a guy with a pretty face - green eyes, gold skin, dimples, brown curls. He smiles at her, just a little, and Lydia tilts her head and spins on her stool. She looks down at her drink for a few seconds and when she looks back up he's rubbing his lips, one eyebrow raised at her empty drink.

Lydia smiles.

He comes over a minute later, bending down to whisper something to the guy next to him before walking right to her.

_Good boy_ , she thinks, thrilled at the distraction of the sudden heat between her legs.

He nods at her as he approaches and slides up next to her to lean against the bar, smooth as silk. “Another,” he calls out to the bartender, nodding at Lydia. “Please.”

“Thanks,” Lydia murmurs, tossing her hair a little. “And you are?”

He gives her a wry smile and nudges her knee with his own. “Interested.”

Lydia can feel herself slide back into her old persona, the one she wore in high school, back when she was with Jackson, settling around her shoulders like an old coat. “Ariel.”

Nice plush lips curve into a more genuine smile. “Hunter. You here by yourself, Ariel?”

She flutters her eyelashes at him. “Mhmm.”

He strokes the inside of her wrist, reaching for his wallet with the other hand when the bartender comes over with another Long Island for her and something clear and bubbly for him. He hands over his credit card and runs his thumb across Lydia's palm. “Would you like to come home with me tonight?”

She finds herself nodding, hypnotized, like he's picking her up and not the other way around.

They stay for another round of drinks and by the time they leave Lydia is hanging on to him, giggling because she's so drunk that every word out of his mouth is hysterical. Everything breaks up into little jagged visceral pieces - the weight of his hand on her shoulder, the numbness in her face, the heat in her belly, that first shock of cold air when they go outside to wait for a car.

He holds the back door open for her when it comes but she almost falls getting in, he has to help her, thick tan fingers holding her elbow as they climb into the backseat. Lydia lets her head flop back and stares out the window as the car starts to move. He drops his hand to her thigh and she relaxes a little on instinct, sighing as his fingers creep up under the hem of her dress. She blinks heavily, watching the city blur past as he cups her through her lace underwear.

She's half-asleep by the time they make it to his place, drunk and aroused and disoriented. Lydia lets him walk her into his building, all shiny glass and steel with a doorman in a pressed green uniform. They take an elevator up to his apartment and Lydia has to stop in the hallway to take off her shoes so she can make it to his apartment without falling over, too inebriated to be wearing five inch heels that sink into the plush carpet.

He gets the door of his apartment open and they make out sloppily in the foyer as he reaches behind himself to lock the door and drop his keys somewhere. “Come on,” he murmurs, and leads her to a long leather couch in the middle of the room, the only piece of furniture that she can see besides a glass coffee table.

He sits in the middle of the couch, legs spread, and reaches for her. Lydia grasps his hands as she climbs up into his lap and straddles him, her dress riding up her thighs. She leans over to kiss him and their mouths meet but there's no rush of excitement for her anymore, it's just drunk mechanics, emotionless and technical - lips here, tongues there, roving hands on her body that don't feel anything like Stiles.

Lydia has to stop and breathe through _that_ little realization, that she's now comparing other men to him, barely registering the guy's lips on her neck. His hands glide up and down her back and she shivers, remembering the way Stiles held the back of her head when he hugged her the night he slept over, like she was something breakable, beloved, his to cherish.

“Bedroom?” the guy pants against her skin, she's already forgotten his name.

Lydia pulls back, watching his face blur in front of her. “Do you have somewhere I can go wash up first?”

He gets up and points to a small bathroom by the foyer she didn't notice before. “Meet you there?” she offers, slowly disentangling their bodies.

He grins and saunters down a hallway, Lydia tiptoes towards the bathroom and waits until she can hear a click of a door down the hall. She ducks back out to the foyer, picks up her shoes, and slips out the door. She stumbles down the hallway to the elevator and rides down to the lobby in bare feet. She puts her shoes back on in the lobby of the building, fingers catching on the buckles, her hands shaking. Lydia walks over to the floor to ceiling windows and looks outside, panic welling up in her chest. Her eyes prickle with tears and Lydia sniffs furiously as she pulls her phone out of her clutch.

She stares at his contact number for a long time before desperation wins out, Lydia taps the number, puts her phone to her ear, and listens to it ring before he picks up.

“Lydia?”

Just the sound of his voice saying her name makes her start to cry. “Stiles.”

“Lydia, what's wrong, are you okay?”

“I'm sorry,” she sniffs and leans her forehead against the glass window that faces out at the street. 

“Lydia, what's going on? Where are you?”

“I'm sorry I didn't text you back.” She gasps for breath, the glass cold on her skin. “I'm so sorry.”

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Lydia, it's fine, just tell me where you are.”

“I don't know,” she whimpers.

“Is your GPS on?”

“Hold on.” She blinks rapidly through burning tears and opens up her map app, taps the arrow icon and watches a red pin materialize onto a sea of beige. “I can't… Stiles,” she cries helplessly, too drunk to be embarrassed about how pathetic she sounds, and pushes her fist against her mouth.

“Okay, send me a pin, I'm coming to get you,” he says firmly.

She lets out a shaky breath and does what he tells her. “Okay.”

She doesn't know how long she waits, nose pressed against the glass, shoulders hunched, nervously twitching every time the elevator dings. Eventually her phone buzzes, Stiles’ name coming up on the screen, and Lydia clumsily wobbles through the lobby on weak knees and goes outside.

He's already out of the Jeep, running down to sidewalk to her. “Are you okay?” he shouts. “Are you hurt?”

Lydia folds in on herself and starts to cry again. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”

“Hey, it's okay, here, you're freezing.” He yanks off his padded jacket and drapes it around her shoulders. “What happened?”

Lydia reaches out with numb fingers to clutch his waist. “I want to go home,” she sobs, and presses her wet face into the side of his neck.

“Okay,” Stiles says gently, and turns her around to walk to the Jeep. “Come on, I'll drive you home.”

She cries silently the whole way there, guilty tears sliding down her cheeks, Stiles’ right hand clasped tightly around her left while he drives. He doesn't ask her any questions, doesn't demand to know what right she thinks she has to ask for a favor like this after the way she treated him, which only makes her feel worse, how easily she won his forgiveness. When they get to her building he parks and gets out of the car, jogs around to the passenger side and opens the door for her. When he helps her onto the sidewalk Lydia goes limp against him, Stiles has to drag her inside and into the elevator, muttering something about _girls and their crazy fucking shoes_ , his arm holding her up by the waist.

She's too drunk to have any fine motor functions right now, Stiles has to unlock her apartment door for her because she can't get her fingers to hold the key without dropping it. She kicks off her heels and stumbles into the wall as Stiles shuts her door behind them, staring at him because she can't believe he's here again, in her apartment, looking at her with warm tender eyes like she didn't fuck everything up between them.

“Come on,” he says gently, reaching for her. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

He walks her down the hall to the bathroom. He flicks on the light and Lydia flinches, her eyes hot and achy from crying. Stiles tilts his head critically at her and reaches out to tuck her hair behind her ears. “You got anything that takes off whatever that stuff is all over your face?”

She groans and hides behind her hands, Stiles chuckles and slides his hand under her hair to rest it on the back of her neck. She can't help but tip forward into him, swallowing a raw sob at the feeling of his body against hers. He sighs and rubs his fingers against her skin, tracing small circles over her vertebrae.

She shivers and drops her hands to his waist. “Cabinet,” she mumbles eventually. 

“Okay, up you go, come on.” Hands comes to her waist and then she's being lifted, Lydia grips onto his shirt as he lifts her up to sit on the edge of the sink, his jacket sliding off her shoulders.

Lydia surreptitiously wipes her nose with the back of her hand as Stiles rifles through the contents of her cabinet and withdraws a tube of makeup remover and snatches a clean washcloth hanging next to the sink. “Close your eyes,” he whispers.

She's too lost to do anything but comply, she can feel his knees against hers as he steps between her legs and starts rubbing the cream carefully under her eyes with his fingertips. “You want to tell me what happened?” he says, his voice soft and low.

Lydia tilts her head back until it bumps up against the mirrored surface of the cabinet. Maybe it's just the alcohol but it feels like more, like there's something inside of her demanding to be let out, a confession crawling up the back of her throat. 

Maybe she's just tired of being alone, maybe she just can't take it anymore, because she feels like if she doesn't tell him the truth she's going to shatter into a million pieces.

“The last time I had a boyfriend,” she whispers hoarsely, “I was sixteen.”

His fingers still on her face for a second but then they move again, massaging cream into her skin in soothing circular motions. “Yeah?”

She keeps her eyes closed, it feels easier like this, when she can't see his reaction. “His name was Jackson. He was - gorgeous, really. Popular. We were kind of like the power couple of our grade. Everyone knew us. I loved him. I loved being his girlfriend.”

She can hear the water turn on and she swallows something thick in the back of her throat before continuing. “He was a lacrosse player. He was really, really good, he was already getting scouted even though we were only sophomores.”

She jumps at the feeling of the washcloth against her cheek and Stiles makes a soft shushing sound, bracing his free hand against her jaw. A few hot tears slip out behind her closed eyelids and he doesn't say anything, just catches them with the washcloth, like he's waiting for her to keep going.

Lydia takes a deep breath, gripping the edge of the counter. “He had a game towards the end of the year. It was a big one, and he played really well, I swear, sometimes I can still hear everyone screaming at the end of it when they won.”

She starts to shake and the washcloth makes one big sweep across her face before it's replaced by both of his hands, cupping her cheeks in his palms. “I'm listening,” he murmurs, like he can tell how hard it is for her, to get this out.

Lydia blinks up at him, her tears turning his face into a blur of gold. “No one even noticed at first, we didn't see it happen, everyone was screaming and then - he was just down. And he didn't get up.”

Stiles frowns, his thumb soothing over her cheekbone. “Lydia.”

“He had an undiagnosed heart condition,” she explains, tears falling freely over his hands. “No symptoms. No one had any idea. He was dead before the ambulance got there.”

“Lydia” -

“Ever since then it's like… it's like…” she chokes on a sob and falls forward, pressing her face into his chest.

“Like there's a hole inside you and no matter what you do you can't fill it up,” he finishes for her, his voice soft and trembling.

She looks up at him in shocked surprise and suddenly she understands, just by the look on his face - he lost someone too.

“You never talk about your mom,” Lydia whispers, the pieces suddenly clicking together.

Something in his face contracts, like she's inadvertently hit a wound she didn't know he had. “I'll tell you tomorrow,” he offers. “Come on, time for bed.”

He slides his hands under her thighs to lift her up and Lydia wraps her legs around his waist as he carries her down the hall and to her bedroom. He deposites her on the foot of her bed and Lydia leans back to wriggle out of her dress, kicking it to the floor. Stiles takes a step back and she lunges for him desperately, vulnerable and panicked.

“Hey, hey, it's okay,” he reassures her, letting her pull him down on the bed to sit next to her as he catches her hands with his own.

“Stay with me,” she begs, her voice cracking, tucking her head into the crook of her elbow to hide her face as she slings her legs over his thighs so she can lean against his chest.

Warm lips kiss her forehead. “Are you sure?”

She peeks over the top of her arm and nods. Stiles exhales sharply, his cheeks a little flushed, and Lydia realizes too late that she isn't wearing a bra, sitting half in his lap in only a sheer pink mesh thong.

“Okay,” he mutters, like he's talking to himself. “Okay. Do you - want me to sleep here or…?”

He lets the question hang and Lydia nods, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

“Okay,” he says again. “Um, just give me a minute, here, lie down, you must be freezing.”

He pulls back the duvet cover and she crawls under it, watching out of the corner of her eye as Stiles takes off his flannel and kicks off his jeans so he's in a thin grey crewneck tee shirt and navy boxer briefs. He switches off the light and walks over to the bed, slides in next to her and curls onto his side, giving her a hesitant look. “Is this okay?”

She flips over and tugs on his arm until her bare back is pressed up against his chest and his arm is heavy and warm across her waist. “Perfect,” she mumbles, and falls asleep, just like that.

*

Lydia wakes up to a warm hand splayed low on her belly, someone's nose pressed against the back of her neck. She sighs and rolls over languidly; Stiles is right there in bed blinking sleepy eyes at her, his hair sticking up in six different directions at the same time.

“Hey,” Lydia whispers, barely half-awake, and slides her leg in between his.

“Hey,” he says, his voice thick with sleep. “You feeling better?”

She flushes as she presses her cheek against the pillow, suddenly shy. “Thank you,” she whispers, trying to pour emotion into the words so he knows that she isn't just grateful for last night, she's grateful for everything - his friendship, his forgiveness, his hand trailing up and down her naked spine.

“Um.” Stiles gives her a helpless smile. “Are we - are we okay? Because I kissed you and I thought you liked it but then you ignored me all week, and then last night happened and my head is kind of spinning here.”

“I did like it,” she confesses.

His forehead wrinkles. “So why did you” -

“I told you,” she says, her throat tightening. “I haven't - I've been with other guys, I have physical needs like everyone else but I've never… not like that.”

“Like what?” he ask gently.

Lydia reaches out and curls her fingers in the fabric of his tee shirt. “Not with someone I care about,” she explains softly. “Not with someone I could….”

“Oh,” he says, eyes widening in understanding, and then he smiles. “So you liked kissing me, huh? Are we talking like a little, or a lot, or what exactly?”

“Oh shut up, you liked it too.”

His smile broadens. “Yeah I did. In fact, I kind of want to do it again.”

Lydia goes still at the sudden wetness between her legs. “Yeah?”

His hand creeps down to her tailbone, right above the swell of her ass. “Are you going to run away again?”

“No,” she whispers.

His faces comes closer, just by an inch. “Are you going to spend the next week ignoring me?”

“I won't,” she promises. “I won't do that again.”

“Look,” he sighs. “I understand if you aren't ready for this to be something more, and that's okay, we can just be friends, I love being friends with you, I mean” -

Lydia flatterns her hand against his chest. “Stiles.”

He blinks rapidly, fingers creeping under the lace of her thong. “Yeah.”

“I - I don't know if I'm ready,” she confesses. “But I want to be.”

“Okay,” he says seriously.

“And I don't want to be just friends with you,” she adds.

“Really?” A little shocked, like she's surprised him.

She closes the distance between them and brushes her lips against his. “And I want to kiss you again too,” she whispers. 

“Oh I am good with that, I can so get behind that idea,” he mumbles, fingers tracing circles against her skin. “Preferably after I’ve brushed my teeth, but yeah, hell yeah, sign me up.”

Lydia smirks. “It's a good thing you've got a toothbrush here then.”

Stiles grins and it's like everything inside her goes soft, her body relaxing against him. “You hungry?” he asks, twisting a little over her to kiss her neck. “I could teach you how to make pancakes.”

“Mm.” Lydia slides under him so he's lying on top of her, their legs tangled together. “Five more minutes?”

Stiles yawns and presses his face into her collarbone. “You got it.”

Lydia smiles as she reaches up to comb her fingers through his hair, morning sunlight turning the strands a million different shades of golden brown, like he's glowing. Stiles hovers over her body, his weight on his hands and knees so he's not crushing her and she can feel him everywhere, like he's already inside her, like he belongs right here, with her.

A perfect fit.

**Author's Note:**

> So my bad habit of writing angsty Stydia late at night when I should be sleeping clearly isn't improving. Thank you to Rachel (writergirl8) for providing me with names of actual establishments in Boston for Lydia to go trolling for men.


End file.
